Cold
by chelsietea
Summary: Follow Charles and Elsie in their journey to fight back cold. A collection of 300 words Chelsie drabbles (all of them, seriously) - it's strongly possible for this to become a thing. Rated K, might go up to T and even M.
1. One

**I decided to follow kouw's example (if you haven't read her 'one year' drabble fic do it, it's wonderful) and set up a series of drabbles. **

**I thought it could be easier to update, having to write max. 300 words, I really hope I will be able to update as often as lots of Chelsie writers in here do.**

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**Summary: **Follow Charles and Elsie in their journey to fight back cold. A collection of Chelsie drabbles, not necessarily stand alones, it's strongly possible for this to become a thing. Rated K, might go up to T and even M.

**One.**

The fine gravel muffles their footsteps, spreading a rhythmical and soft sound in the cold December morning.

The icy air slaps Elsie in the face with force as soon as she steps out of Downton.

She inhales sharply, tightening her wool scarf around her neck and squaring her shoulders as if to protect herself from the cold penetrating her bones.

She feels cold, now more than ever. She has lived through fifty-eight winters, she should be used to the feeling. But she's not. She has shrugged it off during the previous years, like brushing the dust off her favourite coat - this winter however, she can't get rid of it as easily as before.

Has she got so old that she can't stand cold anymore?

She starts walking swiftly, her back straight, her head high. She needn't trouble herself with such thoughts.

All of a sudden he is at her side. She feels him rather than hears him, being too engrossed in her thoughts. His presence is silent but commanding, he is a gentle and noble soul concealed by a gruff and stern exterior. He has made it his armor, polishing it with professionalism, making it shine with silver polish.

Elsie raises her head, looks at him. His brows are furrowed, his deep brown eyes search her face for signs of distress. She tries to smile reassuringly, he has nothing to worry about: the matter doesn't concern him.

Charles moves hesitantly, raising his right arm, offering it to her. She ponders whether to take it or not.

Then slowly, ever so slowly (as things between them always happen) she finally takes it.

She feels his warmth radiating through his coat, she almost sighs in contentment thinking how it would be to be held by him.

And the cold wears off.

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**300 words. BAM!**

**If you'd like for this to continue, please leave a review. Encouragement is always great.**


	2. Two

**Hey people! Thanks for your support, it's been really appreciated. I didn't expect so much encouragement on my first chapter.**

**Here's another. **

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**Two.**

He's been cold, distant, for the past two weeks. She doesn't know why and it crushes her.

When she finally thought the cold was wearing off, it came back more merciless than ever.

She's annoyed at him, annoyed at herself: she could almost read his thoughts if she tried hard enough... but everything has changed now.

Elsie doesn't know why he is treating her badly, now more than ever. She's never minded his gruff (sometimes even rude) behaviour towards her. She used to shrug it off with a laugh.

She can't help but mind, now.

Their relationship was evolving, blossoming timidly like a flower on the beginning of spring.

She was aware of that, he was aware of that.

Maybe that's why he brought back winter.

Winter gives him security, safety. He's not like her, he's used to the cold.

But she wants the sun, the warmth, the heat. She wants to tread the earth freely, without having to be careful about snow or slippery ground. She doesn't want to care about appearances, she doesn't want to fit a standard anymore.

She wants clarity, she wants to face the truth, she isn't one for lurking in the shadows.

Charles has been living in the darkness of winter for years. He can't handle sentimentalism, it is what mars his shining armor, his Achilles' heel.

Now he has donned it again, she can't touch him, she can't see his true self anymore.

She understands he is hiding again behind his usual façade because things are proceeding too fast for him, he can't handle all this.

He has been made forever fearful of feelings by previous experiences, by Alice... but what's past is past, he needs to live the present.

Elsie wishes for spring to come. However, she must survive this winter before.

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**Kneel to my BAMFness at writing 300 words again. Yesss.**

**Drop a review below if you have the time ;)**


	3. Three

**My thanks go to all of you who read, review, follow and favourite this story.**

**I think this could be renamed "Frozen", starring Charles as Elsa and Elsie as Anna. **

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**Three.**

Charles collapses on his chair, groaning. His hand goes to his collar, trying to loosen it.

He shakes his head, tries to banish thoughts who would make him pensive otherwise.

It's just the heat, he supposes. The stifling heat of mid March and the humidity invading all Yorkshire are conspiring against him, for sure.

He doesn't like spring, he never has.

Weather is so uncertain to predict, it could rain or be impossibly hot in minutes' time.

And Charles can't stand rapid changes - or changes at all, for that matter.

He hears the soft click of her heels in the hallway, rhythmic, almost melodious, as her delicate Scottish lilt, barely perceptible now years have passed, now she isn't that head housemaid anymore.

He groans in displeasure, disappointed in himself. He shouldn't be thinking of _her_.

He hasn't given her much thought over the years, why start now?

It all began that day at the beach, he reckons.

Once again the heat went to his head, rendering him incapable of thinking clearly.

_What was he thinking when he took her hand, in front of all the staff, no less?_

He passes a hand on his face, sighing loudly. It hasn't been just that day at the beach, he knows.

It has been the day before that, even the week, the months before that.

They have progressively got closer over the years and everything has got out of hand - he doesn't like when he has no control over things, not to mention his own life.

He realizes everything needs to change, but he knows he can't change _her_.

She's so strong, so kind and beautifully stubborn: he has no power over her, this force of nature.

He can't change nature.

It's the heat, he supposes. The thrice damned stifling heat.

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**300 words again, I feel powerful.**

**Leave a review to congratulate me on this? ;P**


	4. Four

**Thanks to you all for your wonderful support. **

**For this chapter I've been inspired by this winter's last flick of tail. ****In Italy we experienced a week of sunny days and blue sky before returning to rain, wind and cold. I'm so frustrated, I was already wearing T-shirts *sgrunt***

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**Four.**

The storm has been raging outside for at least three hours now.

The heat that made him suffer so much has finally given way to a powerful and earth-shaking downpour: he can hear the thunder threatening the dark clouds, the rain echoing its mighty cry.

He is quite pleased, for winter has finally shown up again, and it's fighting the coming of spring with a last, desperate and powerful flick of its tail.

He isn't particularly fond of storms but he has never disliked them either - he has always believed them to be quite liberating.

A storm is a chance to purify one's soul, to wash away one's faults.

He is but a miserable sinner, and he has sinned quite badly.

Charles communicates with Mrs Patmore in the kitchen, his voice is barely audible amongst the lively chatter of kitchen maids stirring soup and cooking dinner in pots and pans, combined with the thundering of the tempest.

He requests a tray with two cups of tea and a few biscuits: he means it as a peace offering. For _her_.

He can't stay too much away from her, he knows. She is his Achilles' heel.

He can't resist her, just as winter can't resist the temptation to turn into spring.

Everything rotates around her, Elsie is his magnetic pole, she keeps him in check without knowing it.

Charles knocks on her door quietly before entering. She is looking out of the widow, admiring the raindrops falling on the glass and sliding down the surface.

She turns, looks at him expectantly. Her eyes don't reflect the grey shade of the sky, they glimmer in dim light. They cast back the shining light of fire, the dangerous heat of coals.

It's time for his purification, his catharsis. And she is his ministrant.

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**300 words again. Yessss.**


	5. Five

**Thank you all for your support. You're amazing.**

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**Five.**

She motions for him to sit with a slight movement of her head, before looking out of the window again.

Her face is expressionless, unreadable.

He can't deduce what she is thinking, he can't know (he never knows, not as she does with him) and he can't even imagine, for she is baffling and unreachable now more than ever.

She is like vapor, inconsistent and invisible, he tries to grasp her but he grips the air, a cold _nothing_. She is gone, raises up towards the dark clouds to meet them, join them, mingle with them... for she is intangible like the firmament and concrete like the soil, sweet as heaven and harsh as earth.

Her visage is lit up intermittently by flashes of lightning, her eyes seem to change color with every thunderbolt: the blue and grey of the whimsy sky, the brown and green of the calm ground.

'_What is she thinking?_' he wonders. Another thought hits him soon after: '_Is she even thinking?_'

In that moment she is not Elsie Hughes - she is a woman, yes, but she has become a supernatural creature, a metaphysical concept.

Elsie Hughes is no more, there is only him and the phantom of her.

Her skin, illuminated by the lightning bolts, appears sheer, almost eerie.

The stark contrast between her pale complexion and her black dress makes her look like a ghost.

The ghost she could have been.

He has always given her for granted, he has almost lost her to cancer.

Now that she's here, in front of him, safe and sound, flesh and bone, he feels her cold, distant.

He can't help thinking it's all his own fault.

She finally turns to him, flashes him an indulgent smile.

It's time for him to reach her through the Veil*.

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**300 words again, yuppy.**

***=this is a Harry Potter reference, I thought that the Veil (shortly: a kind of separation between the world of the living and the dead, where Sirius Black disappears after dying - for those who don't remember/haven't read the books/or seen the films/or both/HOW CAN YOU EVEN/RONALD WEASLEY ****HOW _DARE_ YOU STEAL THAT CAR?! I?M ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED) would represent their situation well. **

******They have always a wall between them, whether it is an armor or a thin veil, there is always something underneath waiting to be discovered. At the same time Charles, who is in the world of the living, reaches to the real Elsie (trying to understand her) who is, to him, in the land of the dead.**


	6. Six

**Oh man, how much of their relationship is unspoken? I think a good part. A _very_ good part.**

**The fact that I haven't made them talk yet is intentional. I want to represent their way of dealing with each other without words. Doing it in multichapter longfics is very difficult: the descriptions would be infinite and the whole story would be very tedious... but a drabble is just perfect for this kind of thing. **

**I do hope you will stick with me, s****o... Chelsie On, as Chelsie Dagger says.**

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**Six.**

She sits in front of him composedly, crosses her ankles in a ladylike manner and folds her pretty little hands in her lap, looking pointedly at him.

Her gaze is encouraging, holds no anger.

But he is incapable to unfold the mystery that he is (even to himself) before her.

He has no idea what he is waiting for. He has no idea what _she_ is waiting for.

A polite word (which she hasn't received from him in weeks)? An apology?

A prayer? For she seems very much like a goddess now: her calm countenance betrays nothing of the fire within her (is it the storm that soothes her?), her mouth isn't set in a thin line, she hasn't the expression she reserves for misbehaving maids - no, she's looking at him indulgently, benevolently, like she was some kind of idol, conceding her forgiveness without reserve, without plotting her vengeance against him, her punishment for his being a fallible mortal.

Is she the goddess of lightning and thunder, glorious and earth-shattering? Or is she the goddess of fire, blazing and fierce? Either way she is incredible to him. She's a creature of flesh and bone forged in a thundering storm and bathed in roaring fire.

Yet she doesn't thunder, she doesn't roar. Once again she manages to surprise him (and when doesn't she?)

He came to her as a sinner willing to be cleansed, baptized by fire once again.

He came to her as a sinner expecting his punishment. Yet she didn't condemn him.

This is the side of God humans strive to understand. The side of God that sinners tend to forget.

He understands, He forgives.

Charles feels cleansed and understood in her presence.

He hasn't spoken a word, she hasn't either.

But he is understood, he is forgiven.

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**300 words. *holds up 300 words trophy*.**


	7. Seven

**Sorry for the delay. School comes first.**

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**Seven.**

A few days have passed since their silent conversation in her parlor.

She has noticed his lack of sleep, he is more tired than usual.

Maybe it's the change of season that worries him.

He is aware spring is coming: the air is warmer, the sun rises earlier, a few flowers have started blossoming already... they have drawn strength from that powerful storm, he knows.

It's ironical how the last desperate fight of winter has fueled the coming of spring even more; it's as if its own sacrifice has originated a mightier change, one winter can't stop.

Spring has arisen from the ashes of winter like a newborn phoenix, drawing strength from its father's bones.

Charles has observed her quite attentively in the last few days.

He has seen how she smiles more, how there's a certain spring in her step, how her hips sway in an enticing way and her face holds a smug and mischievous expression whenever she thinks he isn't looking at her.

She is certain of her victory.

But what she doesn't know is that he resists. Stoically, stubbornly.

Spring might weaken him, but he wants to fight, with every fibre of his being.

He feels like an obstinate plot of land which still persists in surviving, hidden in the shadows, in the coldness and stillness of winter, frozen in his ways and unwilling to make room from spring.

He must not get sentimental. He must not, for if he does, he will lose it all: his head, his heart, his body and soul. They would belong to her then, and he would become an empty shell, wouldn't he?

Isn't it what love does to you? Doesn't it destroy you?

He doesn't want to change, but the thaw is nearer than ever.

And he feels it.

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**300 words again, yes yes yes.**

**I wanted to make Charles surrender but he wouldn't hear any of it, sorry.**


	8. Eight

**My thanks to Chelsie Dagger, who suggested I gave a look at "The Selfish Giant" by Oscar Wilde. I read it as a child but I hadn't even thought about using it as a reference. **

**Another thanks goes to all of you who are supporting me and writing reviews.**

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**Eight.**

He sees her outside the house, helping her younger maids to hang up the linen.

She's energetic, restless, she moves around with swirling skirts - they are a bit shorter now, according to fashion, he can see her ankle, the merest hint of her calf.

Strands of hair have escaped her pins and her pretty cheeks are flushed, the colour lights up her blue eyes.

She directs her maids expertly, unfolds the sheets and lays them on the rope herself.

He looks at her small but capable hands moving swiftly, hanging up the damp linen, folding the dry one.

For a brief, maddening moment, he wishes he could touch her with caring, loving hands.

They never touched much, it wouldn't be proper for them, not in their positions.

Seven years* have passed since she first touched him, just after his heart attack.

He still remembers the strange tingle she left on his skin, like she had marked him, made him hers once and for all.

He was living a mild sort of spring back then, encased in his own cocoon, bathing in unawareness, protected by the rest of the world. He had never given her much thought and he didn't want to - but she had ignited something in him. Maybe that was when everything started.

Afraid, he had kept his distance.

Selfish, he built a wall, forgave no trespassers.

Now he feels like spring has entered his garden: the sun feels warm on his skin, flowers (as brightly coloured as the stars in heaven) emerge from the soft green grass, the trees are coming alive again, a few birds settled on their branches start to sing timidly.

He feels like his property has been invaded again by children: she is his favourite and he is but a selfish giant.

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**300 words, I'm a boss.**

***= Last thanks to my wonderful friend Ashleigh who has checked up for me when Mr Carson had his heart attack (1916-1917, apparently.) **

**According to Wilde's story, the Selfish Giant returned home from the castle of his friend the Cornish Ogre. Seven years had passed since he left, and children used his garden as a playground. In the same way I think Charles never realized the effect Elsie had on him until their relationship became more physical (as physical as these two can be) - the first time they touch I believe is when he gets ill. And between 1916-17 and 1922-23 have passed more or less (more or less, yeah) seven years so... plenty of time for Charles to think over it (come on big guy, you can do it!) and for me to hide in shame because of my horrible references - bye!**

**Leave a review if you have the time! :)**


	9. Nine

**Nine.**

The slow ticking of his pocket watch, buried in his waistcoat pocket, sounds deafening in all that silence.

He pulls it out, opens it, absent-mindedly checks the time.

Only a few more days, then he will be gone.

Never in his life has he felt more torn.

He can't wait to leave for the Season, but at the same time he dreads it.

A part of him is seeking an escape: from Yorkshire, from Downton, from _her_.

He feels he can't take it, the weight of the change is too much for him - for she will change him completely, irrevocably, and he can't face a stranger in the mirror.

However, another part of him can't bear to be separated from her.

He has never felt more the effect of a potential detachment. She has found her way to his heart, she has marred his armor, cold and unbreakable as ice. She has touched him deeply, intimately.

A part of him has always pined for her, he knows. Another has always shrank, recoiled from her, terrified.

He has never been sentimental and he won't become sentimental. Not now. Not for her.

He needs an escape, because he feels his heart singing, his expression softening, his face lighting up in a smile whenever he sees her or thinks of her.

He is a sentimental old fool, he thinks. He's disgusted by his own self.

He wants to fight spring but he is aware he isn't strong enough... so he has chosen to flee from danger.

Distance will help him heal his wounds, mend his damaged armor.

He will return stronger than ever: unbowed, unbent, unbroken*, cold as a thick, slippery sheet of ice, relentless as the merciless winter.

She won't be able to thaw him then.

But he misses her already.

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**300 words.**

***=couldn't help a Game of Throes/ A Song of Ice and Fire reference here. All hail House Martell! :)**

**I know, I know, Charlie is a stubborn one. But he will come round eventually. **

**Reviews are really appreciated!**


	10. Ten

**Thaw might be nearer than you think.**

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**Ten.**

The warm steam rises up from their cups of tea in thin spirals.

Elsie watches attentively as they move slowly towards each other and entangle together, before separating and dissolving into the air swiftly.

She focuses on him, while he stirs his tea quietly to avoid looking at her.

Just three days left to the start of the Season. Then he will be gone.

She has behaved cockily in the past few days: she was sure of having won her battle, but she hasn't, not yet.

She fears she will lose her grip on him if he goes away for too long.

He's like a slender reed bent by the forceful wind.

He has slowly transformed from a strong, mighty and proud oak into a humble, flexible cane - she has helped him, coaxing him with her words, reshaping him in a more modest form.

But he persists in his ways. He is forced to bend by a gentle caress of the warm, springy wind, yet he straightens back again, tall, haughty and hostile.

She had started his ablution, had tied a reed around his waist*, yet he continues to sin, arrogantly, stubbornly.

And who is she to judge him, if not a mere sinner herself?

He feels her gaze on himself and he finally raises his head, shyly, tentatively.

She's looking at him lost in her own thoughts. She's pensive, tortures gently her lower lip with her white teeth.

They're both habitual sinners, she thinks.

He is selfish, proud, a coward.

She is easily prone to wrath, over presumptuous - for she has wrongly believed to be his saviour, to be able to cleanse him, when she is dirty herself.

She is eyeing him boldly now: he shivers.

She says quietly she will miss him... he crumbles.

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**300 words again, hooray.**

*** = references to Dante's Divine Comedy (Purgatory) which I'm studying now in Italian Literature at school. In the first canto of Purgatory, Cato encourages Dante to cleanse himself from the dirt of Hell. So Virgil washes Dante's face with dew and ties a reed around his waist (it's a simble of humility).**

**I hope you've liked this chapter, if it is so, please leave a review - they really make my day and keep me going!**


	11. Eleven

**Sorry for the delay, had a busy Saturday.**

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**Eleven.**

He eyes her warily, trying to search her face for something, a sign.

What should he expect? Devoted love? Affectionate friendship?

What's worst, he doesn't know what he wants from her.

His heart beats faster, whispering (through rushes of blood to his head) to embrace her, to embrace spring and the thaw.

His head screams (through adrenalin rushes) to let her go, flee into the shadows, return to cold winter.

It's safer than the openness of spring.

He is still staring at her, aghast.

Then, he doesn't even know how he manages it, he speaks to her softly, asks her what she means by that. It's an improper and almost rhetorical question, but he can't help it.

His soul pleads her to have mercy on him.

He feels weaker than ever, his firm resolve is slowly starting to dissolve, to soften.

She is looking back at him with reddened cheeks, enticing him even more.

It's her eyes, he decides. They are crystal clear, but not icy blue, not cold... more like warm and welcoming blue - the same shade the sea had that day at Brighton.

She isn't fire, he thinks. He has misunderstood her nature all this time.

She burns bright, yes, but she's more like water, calm and mild, impetuous and violent.

She's no goddess, now he knows. He can see her faults reflected in her eyes, written all over her mortal skin.

Elsie suddenly stands up, nears him tentatively. She reaches out to touch him, yet she doesn't burn him. Her touch is soothing, comforting.

Her little hand fits perfectly into his.

He sighs in defeat, squeezes her hand to grant her victory. They're both sinners, he thinks.

But she's his guidance to escape from the cold, frozen heart of burning Hell.

And he accepts her willingly.

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**So... it's finally happening, isn't it? Our Charlie is slowly melting.**

**I'd love to know your opinions on this chapter in a review :)**


	12. Twelve

**Here I am, 300 words again.**

**Sorry for the delay, it's been a pair of quite exhausting days and I'm a lazy bitch when it comes to writing sometimes. **

**Also, being completely engrossed in 'The Book Thief' hasn't helped. Damn that book, it hurts.**

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**Twelve.**

The train rattles noisily on the tracks.

Charles looks out of the window and a sigh escapes from his lips.

It's a good thing he's alone, he thinks - well, almost. Miss Baxter fell asleep on the other side of their compartment as soon as they reached Ripon; she has wisely followed his example, leaving the Bateses by themselves in another compartment. He doesn't want to intrude their privacy and wishes to be left alone as well... he can't stand making a polite conversation. Not today.

He slumps further into his seat and his forehead touches the cool, almost icy surface of the glass.

He had never been bothered by the Season: five months away from Downton were filled with the excitement of travelling and the various entertainments of London, his stay at Grantham House was spoiled by the merest hint of longing and melancholy - for Downton, for _her_.

London completely occupied his mind with its busy and chaotic life... he knows it won't be the same anymore.

He has made his choice, nothing now will remain the same.

He dreads changes, but he doesn't regret _this_ change. He doesn't regret _her_.

She has risen early to see him off today, wearing nothing but her dark dress and a lovely smile.

She is still hesitant whenever she is around him and he understands - she fears she will break their fragile equilibrium if she scares him away again.

He has been scared for so long and he still is still in a way, for the last time he has given his warm and beating heart to another she has crumpled it beneath her feet.

The cold ruled and protected his heart, but now he is entrusting it to _her_, laying it at her feet, naked and warmer than ever.

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**Leave a review if you have the time, they literally make my day!**


	13. Thirteen

**Sorry for the melancholy Charles and Elsie, I'm a bit angsty myself these days.**

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**Thirteen.**

It's raining, skies have finally opened up.

She is waiting on the threshold for the last maid to arrive from the village: they don't have much to do now the family is gone, she has decided to give them all an half day off.

The last girl reaches her in a rush, almost slipping on the muddy ground. Elsie grabs her arm firmly before she falls over, steadying her.

The maid smiles at her in gratitude before following the others inside; Mrs Patmore is already preparing tea to warm them up.

Elsie has advised them to change into dry clothes before settling down for tea, so the girls diligently go up to their rooms in order to change.

She sighs and leans against the still open door, watching the storm unfold before her.

A fierce and chill wind is shaking the trees, slapping their branches, almost squeezing life out of them. A powerful shower is pouring down from heaven, Elsie doesn't understand if it's trying to soothe or strengthen the violent gusts of wind.

She is glad of this rainstorm. She feels nearer to him, as if the wind could carry his scent, as if the thunder could echo his deep voice... she his reminded of that day in her parlor, when he came bearing his peace offering, quietly baring his soul to her.

She steps outside, not hesitantly, tentatively; she raises her head at the sky, looking up fiercely as big drops of water touch her face, hair, dress, skin. She wants to be reunited with him.

She doesn't flinch, she doesn't shiver. She is warm inside, hot even. The cool raindrops melt as soon as they graze her skin.

She feels warm, mighty, radiant.

Outside wind blows and water rages, but Elsie Hughes is ignited by fire inside.

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**Leave a review for this warm 300 words? Thank you!**


	14. Fourteen

**I had a really rough time at writing this. I can hardly write about those two being separated... maybe I'll make their reunion happen sooned than I intended to.**

**But you're only happier for it, aren't you? You wicked little readers.**

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**Fourteen.**

She grips the stack of letters Beryl just brought in, searching frantically for an envelope bearing his handwriting.

_One, two, three_ - she passes the letters from one hand to another.

_Four, five, six_ - she almost chastises herself for being so silly, she isn't fifteen anymore. But she can't help feeling stupidly and excitingly giddy as she goes through the envelopes.

There it is. Finally.  
She holds the letter in her right hand for a few seconds, as if mesmerized by the way his pen grazed the paper.

Then she slips it into her dress pocket. Unnoticed.

She turns on her heels and, wearing her best professional expression, hands the other letters to the maids gathered expectantly in the servants' hall.

She returns to her chores.

The envelope in her pocket radiates warmth through the light cotton of her dress - it feels hot.

It feels like it's burning.

But she has no time to read it now, as much as she'd like to.

He wasn't expecting it. At all.

He sorts out the evening post and there it is, attached to a letter addressed to His Lordship.

Charles tries not to smile. After all those years he has known her she still manages to surprise him; he knew she would reply to his letter, but he never imagined she would hide her letter into one for Lord Grantham in order for it to reach him sooner.

He finally allows himself to smile while observing her neat handwriting.

Clever and wicked woman. Lovely woman.

He stands up and slips her letter into his waistcoat pocket.

It all starts with a warm tingling, as if someone wrapped a thick blanket around his beating heart.

Hot blood is rushing madly through his veins. His head is spinning.

It feels like _burning_.

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**Leave a review for this short 300 words drabble please? :)**


	15. Fifteen

**This might be angst/creepy. My apologies.**

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**Fifteen.**

The house is quiet, still, as if frozen in time.

The family is out for dinner, so he has given the staff a night off.

But he hasn't gone out, not tonight.

Instead he paces the hallways, the thick, soft Persian carpets muffle his footsteps.

His hand brushes against one of the columns supporting the beautiful ceiling upstairs.

The coolness of the marble penetrates the warm skin of his hand - he shudders.

Outside another storm is raging. It seems like April has a never-ending stock in store.

Lightning flashes in the sky, illuminating the inside of Grantham House in an eerie way.

He sees her.

He blinks and she is gone.

Charles shakes his head at his own stupidity; she's in Downton, miles away from London... isn't she?

A lightning bolt strikes again, the main hall is brighter now.

He sees her figure behind the columns, hiding. Darkness returns, she is no more.

He hesitantly threads the floor, calling out her name questioningly.

She doesn't reply and his eyes can't make out her form.

Thunder resounds outside, light fills the room again.

And there she is, next to a column, so very near to him.

She's looking at him with a lovely smile on her face. He repeats her name again, more decisively this time.

She doesn't reply, only glances at him.

The icy colour of the flash highlights her pallor, brings out the blue of her eyes, the pink of her lips.

Her hair is arranged in a softer way, rebel locks frame her face in elegant ringlets.

He reaches out to her, wanting to feel the smoothness of her cheek, the warmth of her skin.

His hand closes around nothing, grasps thin air.

She isn't there, she has never been.

He feels lonely - and darkness returns.

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**Leave a review for poor, sad Charles?**


	16. Sixteen

**My thanks to all of you who follow, read and review and especially to seareader, who has kindly pointed out I wrote Crawley House instead of Grantham House. Error corrected now, both in chapter 12 and 15. I forgot to say, since I post these drabbles without the help of a betareader, if there are any mistakes please send me a PM and I'll be glad to correct them.**

**Also, I'm sorry if I haven't replied to all your reviews, I didn't have much time this weekend. I'll do my best now.**

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**Sixteen.**

It's hot, stifling hot. June has arrived, bringing warm winds and sunny days.

A maid knocks on her parlor door, asks her for help beating a carpet. Elsie follows her outside and squints her eyes at the bright light, barely hiding a grimace. She shields her face with one hand.

The carpet is big, thick and heavy. No wonder the skinny girl can't beat it properly. The housekeeper shows her how it's done, how remove dust vigorously. She then makes her try - the maid has certainly goodwill but not enough strength.

She smiles at the lass indulgently, sends her back inside. She arranges the carpet better on the clothesline and starts dusting it with mighty blows.

The heat rises up slowly, crawls on her skin with every hit. Her face is glistening with perspiration, her cotton dress sticks to her body. It's too hot for stockings, she's glad she didn't wear them today.

She pauses for a while to catch her breath, wipes her forehead with her sleeve.

And she hears it. A slow, cadenced rhythm muffled by the gravel of the yard. Her head sticks out from behind the carpet and she sees him.

His figure is advancing towards the house, bathed in sunlight. It seems like a vision, for a moment she fears she's just daydreaming.

_It's not a dream. It's not a dream._

She can't help but smile widely at him. He hasn't noticed her yet.

From her position she notices how he holds his head high, how he stutters with confidence and pride. Ridiculous man.

She calls out to him, his name resounds in a sharp Scottish accent.

He looks around himself, confused. Is it her voice? Is he dreaming?

He finally sees her. Calls her back.

_It's not a dream._

_It's not a dream._

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**Review? :)**


	17. Seventeen

**A bit childish, this one.**

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**Seventeen.**

Charles hesitates only a moment before quickening his pace towards her.

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, she notices; it's so unlike him.

He is wearing nothing but a light shirt and a pair of trousers with suspenders. She smiles - he must be suffering from the heat of Yorkshire as well.

She carelessly releases her grip on the instrument she was beating the carpet with, the poor thing falls to the ground with a dull thud.

As if hypnotized, she starts moving in his direction, forgetting all about dust, carpets and housekeeping.

He hastens and she mimics him; she slows down in doubt and he does the same.

They still don't know if it's just their imagination, a trick of the heat, however they are attracted towards each other like magnets, like the earth and the moon: they are drawn, they gravitate around the other.

There he is, quickening is pace again and she suddenly throws caution and propriety to the wind, the warm, summery wind.

She gathers up her skirts in her left hand and breaks into a run, like she was fifteen all over again.

The air doesn't slap her face like it did in that cold December morning, but it caresses her cheeks, it helps her grow wings to get to him swifter.

She smiles at his surprised expression, a carefree childish smile, a soft laugh escapes her.

She is beginning to pant slightly, she isn't a young lass anymore - she couldn't care less.

As if he is reading her thoughts he starts to run as well, his smile bright, his arms open wide.

He takes off his hat to greet her. She falls into his strong embrace, he tightens his grip on her.

He's concrete, solid, he's real. He's not a dream.

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**Leave a review if you have the time, they really make me feel better!**


	18. Eighteen

**Sorry, I didn't feel like writing yesterday. It's a bit of a ups and downs period.**

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**Eighteen.**

She is still breathing heavily, her bosom rising and falling against him.

Her hands rise up on his chest, trying to determine whether he's really there, with her.

She is looking at him, a silent question reflected in her pupils; he gives her an half smile, nods in reply.

_He is real. _

Her face opens in a glad, relieved smile.

She's relieved her mind didn't play tricks on her. She's glad he has come, even if she doesn't know how he managed to. Has the family given him a day off?

It's the only way he would ever be able to reach Downton at such an hour.

He hasn't released his grip on her. Her dress is slightly dampened by the heat, he is sure his shirt is in the same condition.

Despite his mightiest efforts the weight of the distance has crushed him.

His hallucinations in the main hall of Grantham House have been the last straw: he has admitted missing her, terribly.

So, when he got the chance to have a day off, he gladly took it.

He has caught the milk train this morning and now he is here, with her in his arms.

A warm tingling rises up his chest, a lump forms in his throat - he can't help feeling annoyed with himself. He's a grown up man and grown up men don't cry, not for this. It's improper, out of character.

Her body shakes ever so slightly with laughter, but he can feel something warm dampening the front of his shirt.

He brings her closer to him and hides his own, solitary tear in her neatly arranged hair.

Grown up men don't cry. But here and now, Charles is overwhelmed by her warm, tangible nearness.

He allows himself to tear up. He doesn't care.

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**Hope you liked these 300 words. If you did, please leave a review. **


	19. Nineteen

**Second update today. If you haven't read the previous chapter, go back and do it before starting this one (and drop a review maybe?)**

**Anyway I don't quite like it so you can skip this altogether.**

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**Nineteen. **

The day has come and gone - here they are, walking together to Downton's train station.

They don't speak, the only sound is that of their footfalls.

She walks ahead of him, he follows her quietly.

She is in another world, lost in her thoughts. Is she thinking about his imminent departure?

Charles quickens his pace and reaches her in two long strides. He dares to look at her face, study her expression.

Her brow is furrowed, a deep frown has appeared on her forehead.

She is walking swiftly, moving automatically. She seems deep into a soap bubble, visible but untouchable, reachable yet secluded.

She is upset, that he can tell.

He frustratingly stifles a groan at the mystery this woman still is to him. He thought he had mastered the way to read her, interpret her - but he hasn't. He has deceived himself.

A laugh escapes him and her head suddenly turns in his direction, he is able to see her eyes.

They are an intense blue, scrutinizing him accusingly.

Why on earth would he laugh in such a moment? She both feels baffled and outraged.

She opens her mouth to put him into his place but he laughs again, softly, shaking his head to reassure her.

The tumultuous water of eyes is calmer now, but her irises still hold a trace of uncertainty.

He stretches out his hand to her, something he would never do - for he's has never been the bold one in their relationship, but a great deal of things has changed since then.

She tentatively takes hold of his hand and he squeezes hers reassuringly, the way she did with him at Brighton, months ago.

He won't leave, not really.

She can hold his hand if she needs to feel steady.

She does.

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**Listen, I meant to write about their adieus, I ended up with this. Don't look at me, it's all _their_ fault. **


	20. Twenty

**Sorry for the delay. I'm making the best of these Easter holidays, cooking, helping mum at home and trying to become a better Photoshop user (and also doing homework, ops I forgot ehehe)**

**Thanks to all of you on Tumblr who have helped me reach 1k followers (yes, I'll never boast about it enough) - your support both here and there is really appreciated.**

** I hope you enjoy these 300 words.**

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**Twenty.**

They sit on a bench while waiting for the train, their silence dripping remembrance and melancholic smiles.

Their hands rest on their own laps, but they sit close to one another, their thighs touching, their shoulders bumping into each other. They shiver, but not from the cold.

She bites her lip to keep from laughing bitterly: it's ironic how she has waited for months for him to come, how she has dreamt of Charles getting off a train shrouded in steam - and here she is, waiting for the same steam-shrouded train to take him away from her.

It's just another few months, she repeats herself. Two, maybe three. One and a half, if she's lucky.

She can survive without him, she has always managed it after all.

But deep inside her she knows it's not true: she has changed him, yes, but he has changed her as well.

She supposes important people, people you care about, don't enter your life quietly - they leave a mark on you. He has done just that: he has made her his. His mark burns bright and fresh on her skin.

He is looking at his hands folded in his lap. He wanted to know her most inner thoughts before, now he doesn't even dare to look at her. He wouldn't bear her expression, for now he knows his departure is upsetting her, now he knows he will be missed.

A piercing whistle reaches their ears and his hands close into fists. He stands up stiffly, staring off into the distance. The last train to London is arriving.

Elsie stands up, he finally looks at her.

She looks lovely in her blue coat, wearing a small, resigned smile.

He averts his gaze, blushing shamefully, suddenly self-conscious about his overwhelming urge to kiss her.

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**I swear these two are so frustrating, I wanted to write ONE drabble about their departure and look what happened.**

**Help, I'm suffering from a common fanwriting syndrome. **


	21. Twenty One

**I have a good excuse this time. Haven't updated because I was busy making a Chelsie video last night. **

**If you haven't seen it yet, and would like to, you can find it on my blog (prior-incantatem on Tumblr) or on YT, searching "Carson/Hughes - Remember Me"**

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**Twenty One.**

The train has finally reached the platform, steaming profusely.

Doors open, a few passengers get off the train, attendants pick up valises, people bid farewell to their loved ones.

She looks up at him expectantly. He avoids her gaze.

Elsie is growing more and more puzzled. She wonders what on earth is happening inside his head. She hates it when she can't read him.

She reaches out for Charles, startling him when she touches his forearm.

He finally looks at her, his eyes wide and agitated. Her hand feels warm on his skin.

Realization has hit him hard: he's going to leave her, here and now.

He wishes to kiss her. He needs to kiss her soft cheek, her furrowed brow, her little nose, her supple lips. He needs a kiss from her, to take with him, to help him get through the months to come.

She opens her mouth to urge him on, but the shrill sound of the whistle steals her voice.

They look at each other. She smiles miserably. His heart sinks.

Charles resignedly opens the compartment door, steals a glance back at her.

He wishes he was brave enough to take her in his arms and kiss her deeply in front of other people, caution and propriety be damned.

He regrets not kissing her during their time alone. He sighs: he is not strong enough, he has never been.

It's time for him to go. He closes the door, sticks out from the window.

He won't kiss her, not this time.

The train starts moving slowly, their smiles grow wider, sadder.

He waves weakly at her. She responds bringing her hand to her mouth and blowing something in his direction. The wind brings it to his cheek, lips. It's warm.

_A kiss. To bring with him._

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**I know. I'm sorry, I can't help it. **

**I hope you don't hate me. At least not that much you don't leave a review?**


	22. Twenty Two

**Only ladies in this chapter ;)**

**PS: I haven't had the time to reply to your wonderful reviews but they are really appreciated!**

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**Twenty Two**

The servants' hall is almost empty at dinner, Elsie notices it even more now he is gone.

She is glad Mrs Patmore, Daisy and the kitchen maids have made a habit of eating with the rest of the staff during the Season.

She almost wishes he hadn't returned. She had got used to his absence and now his sudden return and departure only enhance her loneliness.

She feels like an empty shell tonight. She hopes work will keep things off her mind tomorrow.

She looks uninterestedly at her plate; her insides are knotted and her stomach refuses to accept food.

The silence surrounding a dining table is one of the things Beryl Patmore loves the most.  
People eating quietly is the most sounding proof of a good cooking - and she is certainly proud to cause such contented silence.

She contains her smug smile at seeing maids composedly enjoying their dinner, footmen trying with all their might not to gobble up to avoid disgusting the women at the table, the housekeeper playing with the food in her plate... her gaze returns quickly to the latter.

Elsie Hughes playing around with her food? Has the world turned upside down?

Yet there she is, wrinkling her nose, gently pushing morsels around her plate.

Beryl stares at her with an examining glare. Oh, she knows. Mrs Hughes might not be aware of it, but she has seen her in the yard. She knows Mr Carson returned to Downton this morning.

That would explain why she is silently shutting herself away from all of them.

She doesn't know, but she can guess, that something is brewing under the surface, ready to bubble up like a soup, a soup that has something to do with the butler.

She knows she will discover it all eventually.

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**Leave a review for our amazing Beryl Holmes?**


	23. Twenty Three

**Thank you for your reviews. I'm sorry I haven't been able to reply but I have been busy, I also need to catch up with all your lovely stories!**

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**Twenty Three**

It's early in the morning, Beryl descends the stairs with a sleepy face. Her hand barely covers a great yawn. She had been sleeping so peacefully - and dreaming of that actor, Rudolph Valentino. She chuckles good naturedly: that had been a pleasant dream indeed.

She doesn't know why she woke so early today, now she can benefit from the absence of the family to sleep more; it must have been the heat of the morning... or the digestion? Something like that, anyway.

She reaches the kitchen, already dressed for the day. She won't have much to do though, it's Mrs Hughes and her maids those who work for most of the day. The Season is the best chance for the housekeeper to clean the house from top to bottom.

Beryl puts on her apron and ties it behind her back, rolling up her sleeves. Best get to work.

She grabs a bowl and a wooden spoon before hearing a clicking sound of heels on the stairs. She glances at the clock, realizing it's too early for one of her girls to be up and about. They wake up at least an hour later now.

Her head sticks out from the kitchen door and her eyes catch a glimpse of black before it disappears swiftly. She sighs sympathetically.

Elsie has managed to open the back door without making it creak. The morning is bright and clear, heralding a lovely mid-July day.

She can see the postman cycling towards the Abbey. He looks surprised to see her already at the door, but he gets off his bike unquestioningly, giving her a small stack of letters.

They seem to burn at her touch.

She goes back into the house, hiding a small smile... and bumping straight into a very knowing looking cook.

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**Aha! I do think our Elsie just got busted by Beryl Holmes in 300 words :)**


	24. Twenty Four

**Hey there, sorry for the delay but Finals Are Coming (I mean, they are already here ahah) so I'm busier than ever. But the good news is I have started working on A Little Courage and I have a few ideas (confused, but still).**

**Enjoy the chapter (?)**

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**Twenty Four.**

Beryl looks at her inquisitively, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smile on her face.

Elsie attempts to stand her ground, but she eventually drops her gaze, trying hard not to blush - she won't give that nosy cook the satisfaction to see her cheeks redden bashfully, no sir.

She answers her questions evasively; the reason why she is there at such an hour and why she was so eagerly waiting for the postman to arrive remain unanswered - she isn't ready to share what they have.

There is nothing sure about their relationship yet: they haven't made promises, no declarations have passed their lips.

They're still getting closer, nearing each other slowly, although their pace has quickened a little.

She feels her skin tingle at the mere memory of his body pressed against hers, gently enveloping her.

When it all started, they were from yards away from the other. He gave his back to her, always, too afraid to turn back and show his real self. When she tried to catch up with him, he would put further distance between them - she thought she would never reach him, she thought he would never let her. She couldn't keep up with his quick pace, anyway.

But in the end she has managed. Her body couldn't reach him, but her voice could.

Elsie called back for him several times and he learned to trust her voice.

He has finally turned in her direction, like Orpheus with Eurydice.

He turned to her, but he hasn't lost her and she hasn't lost him. There is no vicious pact set by Hades, they're safe and sound, together.

There are still uncertainties between them, but now she knows he's not a dream, he's not a lost soul.

He's real and she's real. They're real.

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**If you made it this far, I'm proud of you and honoured. **


	25. Twenty Five

**Sorry for the delay, school takes all my free time now.**

**I decided to write a drabble for myself as a birthday treat. I don't like it much but anyway *sigh***

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**Twenty Five**

August is upon Downton Abbey and Elsie couldn't be more glad for the unbearable hot weather.

She has never liked the stifling humidity of Yorkshire, she very much prefers cool Scottish summers... however she gratefully wipes her forehead with her handkerchief, hiding a smile.

The heat is more bearable now she knows he will be coming home soon.

His last letter to her has announced his forthcoming arrival within a week. Just a week.

Seven days are nothing compared to the twenty years they both waited to be together, yet she knows they are going to be a torture.

It's odd how they were proceeding so slowly towards one another, like they had all the time in the world to reach the other... now however it's as if someone has slapped them in the face, waking them from their trance.

Maybe it's a side effect of crossing the barrier of property, she thinks - it must have backfired on them both, rendering them so eager to meet again they can barely contain their excitement.

She knows he looks forward to coming home and this time she knows it isn't only because he wants to set things right before the arrival of the family, or because he is fiercely devoted to the house. This time she knows she plays a role in his decision to come back early.

She can't wait to see him again, be in his arms and smell his cologne.

Their relationship reminds her of the sea, powerful and unpredictable.

For twenty years they have been waves that gently lapped the sandy beach: sometimes they moved in unison, sometimes they fought violently against the other.

But now their waves have grown mighty and fierce, their tongues of water are entwined, they make their way to the sand together.

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**Yeah, I was supposed to make their detachment last a little longer but I have a heart too, you know.**


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